Life slows down outside the city, 350000000 dead
Birds rest in the water, in deference to the sacred buildings of the in construction Funeral City
day breaks and they march to the buzz of rain, they who now thicken our western roads and churn cold fields to mud
the invading conquered-and-reconquering, bringing along the detritus of a life, tokens imbued with a memorial power:
— always she has a stale green and white ribboned mint, snatched from a porcelain bowl at the wake, a display which implied a public offer tho’ she felt a thief anyways
— in one pocket, a note of apology that led to further encounters
— in another’s case, her nightshirt concealed, scent long diffused from the fabric,
kept as a sigil as her echo fades and an ever-growing framework of memories obscure the structures beneath
— a printed orange slip of high-density polyethylene whose meaning would later be inverted upon itself and made wrong
against foul riptides, through choking clouds, bypassing trapped bridges to leprous islands, here, through the industrial district
furnaces growl and pistons rally to power the jet-lungs, the Breath of the Son who exhales the atmos of our Landmark Dome
each turns in passing, burned limbic pathways unable to accept another unspeakable disquiet
a shiver, a fleeting haunt, the freezing immediacy when the eyes meet, an unstable state teetering over criticality
an out-of-spectrum waveform thrown as the Leviathan’s coils grip flush with our plane, necessarily put from the mind
perhaps a trick of the shifting weather patterns
to permit ourselves few words and fewer possessions, live purified
(or emptied of excess, if you prefer)
in them; by them; we bear only:
- their piece of the One Moment which banishes all else
- a complaint of the Earth itself
- whispers, or mirth swallowed-back
- a cause for the walking mausoleum
- all his joy
Ron Paul Funeral City 350000000 dead
Guest post by Vern
Funeral Trains visit the station. Engine Fairfix runs down enemy time. To fill cars with ash and polished transparent water canisters exposed to sun during the third Venusian preditrian . Its exhaust leaves the engines with the smell of burning marble. This gives any who smell it a desire to follow. Thousands walk the tracks, and hospitalers have banded together to tend to them. Their routes are determined by Rand Paul’s signaling beacons, coordinated with satellites and observations taken at the center of the Funeral City. Today’s signal: cut rush, 110 h, 18 n.
Ron Paul Funeral City, 350000000 Dead
The constellation Sachi-fouix 2 is now underneath the Armenian rifleman’s star, which shines through small hollows in the grating covering the canopies of the largest grave machines.
And there is the highest star, which is called by Rand Paul, Sumsoun. Rand takes out an album, with Samo Mun written on its cover, and struggles to speak about it. He states the he likes that in life, it shone. He addresses thank yous to this star. It is set to die on the day of the completion of his father’s funeral city.
Rand locks his oil rigging gloves with a twist in the palm, and fits his hand around my wrist. “Your wrist is a field. My soldiers are garden genius. They play outdoor games.”—He points to 10 figures in the distance, smashing shovels and picks against a palm tree. “We learned it on the Congolaisse border when we searched for growing caverns.”
His voice fails as a convoy of trucks smashes through the bush, meters from where we stand. Their beds are filled to pyramid points with shining wet stones. The drivers’ faces are impossible to make out through the ash on their windows.
Rand unfolds a survival rifle from his pack, it’s covered in yellow twisted bits of bark. His bloused boots shake out luminous black mineral shards as he moves. He aims it at me and says:
"Avoid the world’s plats, history and reflection are unavailable, my father’s teeth are the unbelievable beak . His bones grow now, and the light of the stars fills him. The Funeral City can build itself. We are only here to protect our constituents." He glares at me through a veil and sunglasses.
And as the rocks under our feet began to sing in short bursts, naming stars now visible in the sky, I feel 15 blows. Blood calmly seeps into my eyes, and I scramble for a deeper part of the forest plateau. I hear Rand’s machine fire up and thunder away. Was there a new messenger? The rocks sang “Ron Paul Funeral City, 350000000 dead.”
Towns cheer and citizens march with lilted and joyful hearts at the sight of the funeral equipment convoying through their streets. Matériel strains massive tractors that fill both lanes and require entire power grids to be dismantled. The shadows cast on bay windows and the high frequency screams of the pavement under their tires and treads give away their presence, even at night with the lights off and shutters locked. Rand Paul is sometimes seen riding a load, his cowboy hat making bone cracking and tree felling sounds that somehow fill closed spaces and continue after he disappears over the horizon. Ron Paul Funeral City, 350,000,000 dead
Anonymous asked: Ron Paul's City is toast, hurricanes would destroy it in minutes
Ron Paul’s Funeral City is the hurricane
Desperate calls from the UN, for Ron Paul’s Funeral City to integrate with established international bodies, are heeded. Emissaries of the Funeral City stream out through time. 350,000,000 dead
uglysowwithhumanface asked: This one brings forth a query before the heralds of the erection of monuments and the blotting out of the sun and stars. Firstly, how may one such as I, constrained as I am to a hospital bed, work to undermine and deny the false adjurations of those who speak against the glory of the Funeral City? And secondly, where may one such as I, wracked and fettered as I am by disease, gaze upon the panchrest corona? Is it necessary to inscribe a set of imitation Nazca patterns to replenish my youth?
Wait for the truck marked “Outlaw” Wait for the stones that weep yellow and shine like frozen blades
Lower your ruined body onto a trestle, and join the stones at the feet of the city :^)
Anonymous asked: this old house
Are you coming to Ron Paul’s galloping stone house at the terminus of all tomb veins under The Funeral City
Guest post by Félix Labillois, edited by Ron Paul Funeral City media representative
Overnight, the bedside water-tumblers of Rand Paul’s network of friends spontaneously generate singular flawless calves’ eyes. The eyes, representing the clarity and purity, of both vision and thought required to imagine the new world of just actions. Just actions that the resurrection will force about for the fortunate and faithful. These eyes are immediately consumed by the blessed followers, who have spent the past twenty-four months calming filling all bodies of government and business and laying the groundwork for the deft bit of financial action which will direct all remaining fluid currency in the world towards the formulation of a specially impervious metal alloy and the casting of that alloy into the many ritual knives, each one to be placed at the head of each of a reinforced concrete funerary trough. Twenty-four months ago Rand Paul, who was given a message by and through the immaterial realm, large carp swam into his bedroom, gazed at him, and spoke to him. Rand recognized this male fish as a sacred missive and slit him open. The guts heaped upon the heated wooden panel floor and formed a sign – the split staff of wheat. He knew to choose thousands of his male followers to become the new semi solid mass who would forge the ritual knives, and precede the renewal of many edifices.
With each man accepting this, being tainted by politics and central government administration along with its regulation of commerce, he would become, like his knives, sacred. He would not be killed or sacrificed, and so never resurrected. One by one, each man accepted his fate, then, consuming his eye, he recites the threnody as one of 200,000 beautiful, pounding of a joyous tenor, bass, and alto voices:
We will be lone
We will be chemical
We will be the beds of flower beds
Upon which the resurrected may make love
350,000,000 dead will come awake in paradise
We 200,000 dead will remain sacred and silent beneath their feet
This is enough
This is enough
Ron Paul Funeral City 350,000,000 dead
Ron Paul Funeral City media representative note: this post was written by Dylan Ingraham, edited by a rpfc media representative, and submerged in a well for 3 days, on the 4th day it returned to dry land without any mortal intervention.
Anonymous asked: do you have any advice on (fingerless?) gloves? I need some for warmth to wear while typing but I don't know anything about quality clothes
When the funeral city is consecrated, when the dead rise, beautiful and pure, there will be no need for gloves. First the fingers will sift into component proteins and all gloves will be like those you search for. And when the Venusian becoming has swept the sky clean, what remains of each glove will be gathered together to soften the return from the underworld of Ron Paul’s animal heralds.
hotdadsdatingservice asked: what the fuck is this
A cell network of harriers and couriers of the building and coming consecreation of Ron Paul’s funeral city. 350,000,000 dead
bubblebathosbands asked: Demonic refers to death comprehended as a moral reality
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